Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  Hiring Willie seemed to solve the problem and allow me to do a good deed at the same time. He'd be all right, I told myself. Knowing, of course, he probably wouldn't. But he was better than nothing. God, I needed better acquaintances. Or a friend, I could have used a friend.

  On second thought, knowing I couldn't afford it if something did go haywire, and in case my idiot guard did go snooping, though I despised the thing and usually pretended it didn't exist, I removed my gun from the safe and slid it beneath my suit coat into an uncomfortable shoulder holster I wasn't used to wearing to take with me. That left the safe empty save for a few business papers, some personal papers, and a mummified brownie I'd hidden from Lisa and forgotten. Theoretically Willie couldn't hurt himself with any of the three.

  Willie arrived, with his arm still in a sling, whining through his nose (all his vocal communications annoyingly arrived that way) about how much pain he was in. He probably did hurt, and probably still needed the sling; it hadn't been that long ago he'd been shot. But I hated hearing about it, and worse seeing it, because it reminded me how guilty I felt about the whole thing. Who told him to come save my life anyhow? It didn't help that he was gingerly cradling the arm and milking his injury for all it was worth. It made me want to shoot him myself.

  I gave Willie his instructions; watch the place and, when they got there, make sure the glass repair people had all they needed to do the job. Otherwise he was to keep his nose in the middle of his face where it belonged, to not invite his friends over, and to keep his feet off the desks. I hit the road.

  The only way to check on Lisa, and make certain myself she was all right, was to go to her. That meant visiting the apartment she shared with her mother. That meant getting past her mother; never a happy proposition. Like I said, Mrs. Solomon doesn't like me, meaning she hates me (not entirely without reason).

  Our relationship, let me tell you, had not improved since I'd ruined the esteemed Reverend Delp as her source of inspiration and entertainment. If you missed that case, Conrad Delp, the famed Chicago-based televangelist had been exonerated of the jeopardy of murder charges when I'd tied them onto someone else. But the affair had damaged Delp's reputation and had definitely soured the minister for Lisa's mom. An elderly Jewish woman can only worship a Gentile religious leader so much and then she has to reel it in or become the talk of the ladies at the Community Center. My investigation had pushed it over the edge. Mrs. Solomon didn't actually growl when she opened the door and saw me on her stoop, but you couldn't have fed a parking meter on the difference. The old dear reluctantly led me to Lisa's bedroom and, even more reluctantly, left me alone with her daughter to talk.

  Lisa was eating when I got there; always a good sign. She said she was all right but had a goose egg on the side of her head that would have done Muhammad Ali proud. She offered to let me touch it but I begged off. I wasn't particularly squeamish about head injuries, mine were still plenty tender, but ever since the Delp nonsense I'd grown more and more paranoid about making casual, or even pointed, physical contact with anybody. I described for you what happened in the boat with the drowned man. That same thing could happen again, I was discovering, at any time. I never knew who or what was going to send me into La La Land for either a conversation with the dead or to share a lethal ass whooping from a complete stranger. I was trying to avoid both. Don't think I'm hollering 'victim'. If it was my turn to go nuts, okay, it was. But it would be nice, when your brain gives up the ghost, if they'd give you a manual on how to operate the damaged remains. The point was, on the previous night Lisa had hooked and landed the drowned man. Touching him had sent me splashing and sputtering into cold dark water for the second time in as many days. With two trips into Lake Michigan already under my psychological belt I think you can understand why, when Lisa offered, I didn't give her boo-boo a rub.

  In no time at all I learned Lisa knew nothing about the attack on our office. She couldn't tell me a thing about the vandal or vandals. Her head had taken a glancing blow by the first brick through the first window and she'd been knocked cold as a mackerel. I rarely saw Lisa angry. But she was mad about the office and the goose egg. The more I questioned her about it, the madder she got.

  To cool down, she switched subjects, taking the conversation to the boat and the drowned man she'd found. I cut her short. I told Lisa I was looking into the drowned man, but reminded her she did not find it. “I found the body. You need to remember,” I said. “If anyone asks, particularly a cop, you know nothing of it.”

  Fact was, I was still shocked by the whole setup. What possessed Lisa to rent a boat and row out into the harbor? How did she find a drowned man in the dark? How did she get his carcass into the tiny craft? It was all beyond me. I sometimes doubt her sanity. I never doubt her humanity. But I have on occasion questioned her human-ness. Lisa is, I'm certain, some otherworldly being sent to constantly amuse, frequently annoy, and occasionally bedevil me. Once in a great while she'll mail a letter.

  “Speaking of which,” I asked, “how in the world did you land him? He's small but, still, I don't see how you got him into the boat. Along with everything else that isn't tied down, you must have been eating your Wheaties, huh?”

  Lisa nodded. “I don't think I could have done it if he hadn't helped.”

  That was it. No warning at all. She just dropped that bomb and stared at me.

  “If he hadn't helped? What are you telling me? He was alive when you found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn't tell me that last night.”

  “You didn't give me a chance. You ordered me to go, so I went.”

  I would have sighed but to what end? I kept my frustration to myself. “Give.”

  “I was motoring out, down the channel thingy, 'cause I knew something was out there waiting for me. I believe in your head, Nod, even if you don't. I thought I heard something, so I shut the motor down and started rowing. I heard him calling for help, pretty weakly. I rowed that way and found him floating in from the lake. I tugged him in. You're right, it was a chore. And I leaned him against the…” She waved her hand.

  “The gunwale,” I said.

  She nodded. “It was dark. I couldn't see very well at all. But he looked like he had blood on him.”

  “Blood?” I asked. “I don't remember seeing any blood.”

  “There wasn't much to begin with. By the time you got there, he probably ran out.”

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  “I asked him what had happened to him and, I couldn't believe it, he was rude.”

  “He was rude?”

  Lisa nodded. “I asked what happened. He groaned and, you're not going to believe it, he asked me if it was my business. That hacked me off. So I pretended I was you and told him, 'No. It's your baggage, pal. Carry it!' ”

  I almost laughed.

  “Then I felt terrible,” Lisa continued, “because you're meaner than I am. I wouldn't have said that to someone that was hurt.”

  “God, give me strength,” I mumbled. Lisa was still talking.

  “I asked him to pull his feet in so I could step past him to the motor and, you won't believe this, he said, 'Don't let me stop you.' That really cheesed me off. You know, Blake, I see now why sometimes you're a wise guy. Though I don't know why you're a wise guy to me? Still he was being a jerk and I was thinking it would be an okay world if it weren't for all the people in it.”

  “Could we get back in the boat, please?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, he ticked me off, so I told him, 'Look, mister, if I'm annoying you, feel free to jump back in and finish your swim.' Only I didn't really want him to because he was the reason I was out there in the boat, right? Anyway, he changed his tune and said, 'You gotta help me.' And I said, 'Help you? If you hadn't noticed, I already did.' ”

  I don't know about you, but I was getting a headache. “Lisa!” I shouted. “Does this boat ever reach the pier?” She stared wide-eyed. I felt bad, but criminy. “I know you're on a rol
l,” I told her. “And I hate to interrupt. But get to the point. Before he stopped paying taxes, did the drowned man do or say anything to answer the question, 'Hey, mister, who made you dead?' ”

  “I have no idea. What he did say was, 'The canary. The canary. The canary.' ”

  “The canary… what?”

  Lisa shrugged her skinny shoulders. “He just said, 'The canary' over and over again.”

  “That's it?”

  “No. Finally, he said, 'Didn't die when she fell from the sky.' ”

  “The canary, you mean?”

  “I don't know. If he was trying to finish a sentence, then, yes. It was probably the canary. If it was a second thought, then I don't know.”

  “The canary,” I repeated. “Didn't die when she fell from the sky.”

  “That's what he said. Then he died.”

  “Great. That's just great. What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “That's pretty standard, isn't it? A romantic obscure final sentence for a clue.”

  “Clue to what?” I asked. “You and your romance!” I took a short walk around her room. “Well, if you like your final messages cryptic, that's a crowd pleaser.”

  “Yeah. It meant nothing to me. Does it to you? Anything?”

  I shook my head. “How could it?”

  “Hey,” Lisa said, brightening. “I got an idea. Grab me.”

  “What? Are you crazy? Your mother's here.”

  “No, Blake, not like that. I mean, touch me.” She held out her arm. “We don't know what causes your head flash thingies. I helped the old man into the boat. Maybe something rubbed off.” She shook her arm. “Grab me. See if you can spark one.”

  “When I spark one,” I objected, “I get killed. I don't want to!”

  She glared. “I'm right here with you.”

  Even without the pain that always accompanied the event, the idea did not appeal. But Lisa was insistent. And we needed to know all we could know. Finally, hesitantly, I agreed. I leaned over her. I reached out, took a breath and, with both hands, took hold of her arm.

  Nothing happened. I released her, faced her, took another deeper breath, and grabbed her shoulders instead. Nothing.

  I swore, too loudly. Lisa shushed me.

  It was aggravating. And left us where we'd begun, with a drowned man and a cryptic clue. If murder victims survived long enough to be chatty, why the heck didn't they spill it? Why not come out and say, 'My name is Joe Blow and the name of the guy who killed me is–”' Before I could finish that thought the bedroom door came open.

  Mrs. Solomon barged in to see me still leaning over her daughter's bed holding Lisa by the shoulders. “What's going on in here?”

  “I touched your daughter,” I told her. “Nothing happened!”

  Mrs. Solomon stared for a cold long time. Then she sneered. Then she said, “I'm not surprised.” She shook her head at her fallen daughter, turned and, muttering to God, vacated the bedroom.

  “Did she want something?”

  “Probably. But seeing you molest me so mortified her she forgot what it was.”

  I nodded. “It happens.”

  “Well,” Lisa said, getting back to business. “Our attempt to goose your ESP didn't work. What's our next step?”

  “We don't have a next step. I've got work to do. You've got to rest.”

  “I can't rest,” Lisa exclaimed. “You've got to find the drowned man's killer. I've got to track down the vandals who ruined our office.”

  “Oh, no, you don't.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No. You don't. You're not recovered from your injuries. You're not a licensed detective. And you're not going out into the streets to chase violent anonymous vandals. Forget it! Rest and nothing else. That's an order.”

  Lisa was not happy. But she saw I was immovable and let the subject drop.

  “So, what are you going to do about the drowned man? Where are you going to start?”

  “I've already started. I'm going back to where our drowned man went into the drink.”

  “You know where that was?

  “Yes. Navy Pier. But I don't know who he is, or who helped him in, or why. I'll go back to the Pier first, then I'll widen the search. Chicago can't have but eight, ten million doors, tops. All I've got to do is knock on each and, when it's opened, sing out, 'The canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.' It's too easy. You get some rest. Your mother will show me out.”

  “I'm sure,” Lisa said with a laugh. “Her favorite part of your visits.”

  Of course I wasn't going to knock on eight million doors. I was going back to talk to Alfonso and his promised menagerie of circus performers. But I wasn't going to tell Lisa. She had enough on her bruised mind. As to what I'd learned… Lisa's cryptic quote about a falling canary may have been the clue that exploded the case but I was hanged if I could see it. Not a glimmer.

  What I could see, when I returned to the street outside Lisa's apartment, was that some person or persons unknown had flattened all four of the tires on my Jaguar. And, because I have no luck, the air had not merely been let out. They'd used a knife and stuck each and every tire like a pig. They were destroyed. Staging a terrorist attack on my office and making death threats was one thing, but going after my Jag was too much! And, with the incidents within hours of each other, they were more than coincidence. Who, I demanded of the heavens, had it in for me, was following me, and wrecking my property? The situation warranted cussing and I obliged! I screamed until I ran out of air. Then I took a breath and looked around. I was alone. Whoever paid my Jag the visit had gone. All right, I needed to line up my ducks.

  The quickest solution to my acute transportation problem would, obviously, have been to go back inside, borrow Lisa's phone, and call for assistance and a ride. But Lisa had had enough excitement. And the thought of Mrs. Solomon and me ogling each other again… I cringed. Then I vetoed the idea. The relationship I had with my own dear mater, unbalanced to say the least, left me leery of middle-aged females in general and mothers in particular. Having to admit I'd suffered vandalism by unknown enemies in front of their residence would have only given the woman another reason to distrust and despise me. I gauged the humiliation and decided it wasn't worth it.

  Instead I hoofed it to a Spudnuts Coffee Shop in the next block that, sadly, had a full counter but, happily, had an empty phone booth. I searched my pockets for dimes, dialed the roadside assistance folks at 'Triple A', and started singing the blues.

  Chapter Eight

  With the shoes on my beloved Jaguar repaired, I went back to the circus. I hoped, with Alfonso's help, to talk to the performers I'd been unable to interview the night before. I hoped we'd discover which circus employee, if any, was our drowned man. And, if any luck was to be had, I hoped we'd decipher the meaning of Lisa's cryptic clue, 'The canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.'

  I met Olive as expected, at the entrance lining up his ticket booth for the day, making ready to open. Between bits of business, he chomped massive bites from his breakfast of champions; the sandwich that had given him his name. He returned my stare, chewing olives and cheese, trying to recall where he'd seen me before. I stepped up, mentioned Alfonso's name and, like magic, found myself inside the fence and freely wandering a very different midway than I'd seen the night before.

  Alfonso hadn't come down to meet me. Not that I expected he would. I'm merely stating he hadn't. The performers, I imagined, were housed in the old residential areas of the Pier (formerly used for Navy trainees), in the south section of the arched superstructure on the far east Lake Michigan end. That put the midway and Big Top between me and Alfonso's likely location. Meaning I had a built-in reason to snoop my way across. As I did, I saw several carnies oiling their respective rides, several sweepers giving the grounds a once over, and several fellows collecting and emptying the trash. None showed any resemblance to our drowned man. The Sideshow was quiet, the tents closed, but shouts and laughter could be heard in the
Big Top beyond. As I am by nature nosy, and it was on my way, I slipped inside the hippodrome to see what I could see.

  What I saw was a pair of elderly gents, most likely the two Alfonso had called Ed and Butch, laughing at a private joke as they wheeled a barrow of raw meat through a row of hanging stage curtains to disappear beyond. Based on the noises emanating from the depths, they were about their jobs feeding the animals. The midget had been right, Ed and Butch were accounted for. As the pair were busy, I made a mental note to look them up later for an interview.

  I saw a sleepy looking young girl taking an orangutan for a walk. I thought the monkey's antics funnier than she did. I saw a pair of electrical gaffers atop a scaffold wrestling a set of lights in the rigging. I saw a woman in curlers walking, and making kissy noises at, six leashed poodles.

  I saw the knife thrower and his assistant. From his shoulders up the artist, Tommy Dagger, was perfectly coiffed and performance ready. From the shoulders down he'd taken the morning off, baggy gray sweats and tennis shoes. His assistant, still the target girl to me, looked fresh from the shower. Her hair was towel-tossed. She wore none of the stage makeup from the previous night but was naturally lovely all the same in quickly pulled-on shorts, tennies, and a Houston Oilers' jersey (Earl Campbell, of course). Her right arm bore a clean white bandage.

  They looked to be rehearsing a new act. Tommy Dagger stood verbally setting the stage (in what sounded a French-ish accent). “The ringmaster will announce us. The audience will take in my brilliant authority, your unequaled beauty. The trumpets will sound, the kettle drums begin their march, spurring excitement in the crowd, stimulating you, my dear, to courage and me to confidence.” He spun in place, pointed, and a couple of sleepy looking stage hands, the huskies from the night before without their costumes, hopped to.